Lucian sat upon the Throne of Oblivion, the universe his canvas, the Abyssal Dominion his brush. He felt the echo of the temporal lock's destruction, not as a sound, but as a violent severing of order. He felt the surge of Elara's power, laced with the beautiful, chaotic taint he had gifted her. And he savored, with the detached appreciation of a connoisseur, the wave of fear and suspicion that immediately followed among her companions.
Excellent. The experiment was a resounding success. He had confirmed not only that the link was viable, but that her Frozen Heart system was exceptionally receptive to the philosophy of his own. Pride. Dominance. Absolutism. It was a natural fit. Her attempts at control were a cage she had built for her power; he had simply offered it the key.
He felt her confusion, her self-doubt, her terror. It was a delightful symphony. She now knew, on a primal level, that a greater power resided within her. She feared it. Soon, she would crave it. Every time she used her gift, she would remember that exhilarating rush of true dominance, and every controlled, pathetic little ice lance she fired from now on would feel like a pale, dissatisfying imitation. He had not just tainted her power; he had poisoned her resolve.
His observation was cut short. A tremor, deep and violent, ran through the spire, not from without, but from within his own domain. A challenge. An angry, territorial roar that was not sound, but a blast of raw, psychic pressure against his new sovereignty. Something ancient and powerful in the Rift had awakened, enraged by the spire's change in allegiance.
Lucian's eyes, swirling with cosmic dust, slowly opened. He had been so focused on the pawns in Aetherion that he had neglected the vermin in his own kingdom.
"Hoh?" he murmured to the empty throne room. "An elder seeks to dispute the succession. How bold."
He rose, the violet light of the chamber coalescing around him like a royal mantle. The throne had granted him dominion. It was time to remind its inhabitants what that meant.
----
The silence in the tunnel was thick, heavy, and more oppressive than any physical barrier. The mangled, frozen wreckage of the temporal lock was a testament to a power none of them, least of all Elara, could comprehend.
Mira was the first to break, her voice unnaturally subdued. "Okay… so that was a little intense. But the way is clear, right? We're through." She was trying to weave them back together, to mend the tear with her optimistic spirit, but her words fell flat in the chilling quiet.
"'Clear'?" Kael's response was sharp, biting. He had retreated behind a wall of cynical anger, his usual charm replaced by undisguised hostility. "She nearly brought a mountain down on our heads. That wasn't a 'miscalculation', Elara. That was a meltdown."
Elara flinched as if struck. She stared at her hands, then balled them into fists, her knuckles white. "I had it under control." The lie tasted like ash. She didn't dare look at them, afraid of the fear and accusation she knew she would see in their eyes.
Draven shifted his immense frame, subtly positioning himself not quite in front of Elara, but not beside the others either. He was an uncertain wall, his loyalty in conflict with his protective instincts. "What's done is done," he rumbled, his voice a low warning to Kael. "We move forward."
It was Selvara who sealed the new dynamic. Her gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over Elara, not with fear, but with a cold, unnerving curiosity. She saw not a teammate who had lost control, but a weapon of unknown magnitude. A dangerous, valuable asset. "Draven is right," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "Whatever happened, it worked. Let's not squander the opportunity."
There was no more discussion. They were no longer a team. They were five individuals, bound by circumstance, walking a path paved with suspicion. They moved through the annihilated gateway into the next chamber, the camaraderie they had forged in the antechamber now just a memory.
The room they entered was a stark contrast to the tomb and the tunnel. It was a vast cavern, dotted with dozens of crystalline islands floating in a silent, bottomless black void. Faint, ethereal bridges of misty light connected a few of the islands, but the path was a fragmented, confusing maze over an endless drop. At the far side of the cavern, a single, glowing archway pulsed with a gentle light—their exit.
"Of course," Kael muttered dryly. "A classic trust exercise. Right after the trust has been comprehensively vaporized."
To traverse the chamber, they would have to leap from island to island, relying on newly appearing light-bridges. But the bridges were fickle. A panel on the main platform near the entrance showed that the bridges reacted to weight and the "emotional resonance" of those on the platforms. Too much fear, and the bridges would fade. Too much discord, and the path would shift, leading them astray. It was a trap for a fractured group.
"We have to cross, five of us, all at once, on a single path," Selvara analyzed, her mind already working the puzzle. "The bridge only stays solid if our intent is… unified."
Mira looked between Elara's withdrawn silence and Kael's simmering anger. "We can do this," she said, her voice lacking its usual conviction. "We just have to trust each other again."
But as Elara stepped onto the first floating crystal island, the light bridge that should have appeared before her flickered weakly, its light stained with faint, shadowy wisps. Her own internal conflict, the battle between her horrified regret and the seductive memory of that dark power, was projecting into the very architecture of the chamber. Her doubt was poisoning their path forward.
----
Lucian descended the Abyssal Spire, his movements silent and inexorable. The spire itself was now an extension of his will. The shadows in the corners bent to his presence, the ancient stone humming with reverence. He stepped out of its base back into the crimson twilight of the Abyssal Rift.
The challenger was waiting.
It was a creature that should not exist, a relic from an age before the Calamity's fall. A Rift-Wyrm. Its body was long and serpentine, easily a hundred meters from snout to tail, forged not of flesh but of the same living, obsidian rock as the Rift itself. Its scales were jagged shards, its eyes were molten pits of ancient rage, and from its maw, the crimson haze of the wasteland was being inhaled and exhaled like breath. This was not a mindless beast. This was the former monarch of this desolate kingdom.
The Wyrm's psychic voice slammed into Lucian's mind, a bulldozer of pure rage and indignation. USURPER! THIS SPIRE IS MY ROOST! THIS REALM IS MY HUNTING GROUND! YOU REEK OF THE SAME ARROGANCE AS THE ONE WHO FELL!
Lucian stood before the colossal creature, unmoved. His new powers settled within him, awaiting their first true test. The Wyrm was powerful, ancient, a physical juggernaut. A direct confrontation would be… inefficient.
"Your roost is a prison, and your hunting ground is a barren wasteland," Lucian replied, his voice calm, projecting his thoughts with the precise, cutting edge of his Mind Scour ability. "You are the king of a forgotten pile of ash. A title I have no interest in. However, the spire belongs to me."
INSOLENT WHELP! I WILL GRIND YOUR BONES AND DEVOUR YOUR IMPUDENT SOUL!
The Rift-Wyrm lunged. It wasn't a charge; it was an avalanche. It moved with the geological force of a shifting tectonic plate, its massive head blotting out the crimson sky as it descended to swallow Lucian whole.
Lucian didn't retreat. He simply took a single, deliberate step to the side. At the same moment, he invoked his new dominion over the spire. The seamless black wall behind him rippled, and a dozen obsidian spikes, the same material as the spire, each as long and thick as a battering ram, shot out from the base of the tower, not at the Wyrm's head, but at the ground directly in front of it.
They weren't meant to injure. They were a tripwire. The Wyrm, in its arrogant rage, didn't see the trap until it was too late. Its immense momentum carried it forward, its lower jaw slamming into the sudden, unyielding wall of spikes. The impact was titanic. Shards of obsidian exploded outwards, and the Wyrm roared in pain and fury as its charge was broken, its head thrown off course as it crashed into the ground beside Lucian.
For a split second, its massive, molten eye, burning with hatred, was level with Lucian. It was the opening he had engineered. He raised his hand, and the power of his throne answered his call.
[Throne of Oblivion Activated.]
He placed his will upon the creature, marking it. A ghostly, violet symbol of an empty throne shimmered into existence on the Wyrm's massive skull. It did no immediate damage, but the Wyrm shrieked, a sound of pure, instinctual horror. It could feel it. A metaphysical cancer, a seed of nothingness, had been planted in its very essence. A power that did not wound, but erased.
The monarch of the old Rift had just been marked for oblivion. The battle was not over. It had just begun.